In Which the Four Horsemen are Most Definitely Less Cool than Cowboys
by Tobirion
Summary: Castiel's religious family is going all out for the so-called apocalypse—they've got doomsday predictions on the lawn and even an emergency shelter underneath the basement. Dean's just trying to keep his friend sane. If his relationship with Castiel evolves a little along the way, then, well, that's even better. Oneshot.


_Uh, so, hello! This is my first Supernatural fic, and although I promised myself my first fic for this fandom would be something at least halfway serious...that didn't exactly happen. I had fun though, and what's a better excuse for writing something than 'It's the apocalypse, so why not?' I hope everyone survives the next few days__—_keep your eyes open for Pestilence and all that, alright?  


* * *

_Friday, December 14—7 Days Before the End of the World_

With the blunt edge of a butter knife Dean pushed around a small pile of powdered sugar that somehow—_read: Jo_—spilled and hadn't made its way on top of the fruit tarts they were supposed to be making. He was bored, ridiculously so, and around him everyone else in the classroom seemed to be feeling the same.

Nodding absently at something Ash said about dishes Dean propped his elbow up on the tiny countertop and used the knife to make the sugar clumsily resemble a line of cocaine (not that, y'know, Dean had ever done something like _that_).

"Look, Jo," Dean said, snickering softly. He bent over the counter and plugged one nostril shut, taking a tiny sniff. Jo rolled her eyes and wiped up the 'drugs' with a sponge, tossing the thing at Ash's arm over by the sink afterwards.

"Dean," came the reproving voice of Mrs. Rosen, his teacher, and Dean winced but laughed it off. 'Food and Nutrition' was one of those easy-A classes full of lazy-ass seniors who didn't want to be there anyway, and especially at nine in the morning on a Friday. He had to entertain himself somehow.

He coughed a bit and rubbed his nose, narrowing his eyes at Jo when she smirked at him; yeah, okay, so snorting powdered sugar in class hadn't been the smartest thing he'd ever done but hey, it had been funny for a few seconds there.

"Yo, Dean," Ash called over his shoulder from the tiny sink at their station, kitchen number five, "Can you dry these? I've still got a lot of stuff to wash."

"Su—" Dean broke off and sneezed twice, loudly, bending over with a hand on his knee from the force of it. "…Ugh. Sure." He straightened up, swiped his nose with the back of his hand and joined Ash, only to be roughly pulled backwards by the collar of his jacket a moment later. The swear on his lips died when he saw who had yanked him, and he reached up to fix his jacket as he fixed his best friend with a confused look.

"What was that for?"

"_Dean_," Castiel said gravely, even closer than usual—and that was saying something, because Cas had some serious personal space issues. It wasn't his fault; he had just been raised a little (well, a lot) weird and Dean didn't make a big deal of any of Castiel's quirks. Castiel squinted his eyes and tilted his head, eyebrows furrowing and mouth pinching down into a deep frown.

"It's started," Castiel continued after a few seconds of intense observation, seeming to find whatever he was looking for in Dean's face. He took a step back and fixed Dean a look of infinite weariness. "I'm sorry."

"…Uh," Dean managed, moving aside as Jo tsked and moved in to help Ash, "What's started?"

Instead of answering his question forthright Castiel peered at him again—and wait, was he trying to look up Dean's nose? Castiel was a weird guy, but Dean had never pegged him as the type for a booger fetish—and hah, Cas with any kind of fetish was a good joke (and something he was _not thinking about_, oh yes). He grinned at the thought but it died when Castiel growled out, "You sneezed."

"Oh." He rubbed the back of his neck and gestured airily at the countertop where the spilled sugar had been. "That was, uh, nothing. I'm not sick or anything."

Castiel said nothing, but his gaze slid off Dean's face for a moment and swept over the rest of the class instead, on the six other groups of people working in their own tiny kitchens. Dean frowned and took a moment to observe his friend. Castiel looked, bluntly, a wreck—his clothes were more haphazard and ruffled than usual and his hair stood up almost straight off his forehead instead of semi-neatly combed to the side like he had it sometimes; it looked like he had been running his hands through it agitatedly. A muscle twitched in his jaw as he clenched his teeth, pissed off at something, but what, Dean wasn't sure.

Across the room someone coughed, and Castiel flinched like he had been hit. "_Pestilence_," Dean thought he heard him mutter before stalking across the class to rejoin his group, whose raspberry tarts had burnt a few minutes ago and had stunk up half the place.

"What's his problem?" Ash asked, handing Dean a rag.

"Dunno." Dean shrugged and glanced over at his shoulder at Castiel, who was brooding and staring blankly at the misshapen blackened pastries his group had made. Their eyes met across the room, and Castiel gave him a dark look. The other teen shook his head minutely, a _we'll talk about this later_ look, and Dean nodded.

They finished cleaning up and everyone moved out of the kitchens in the back and back to their desks to eat that day's creations. Jo was telling him a funny story about Ellen and a broken dishwasher and Castiel's odd behavior slipped from his mind after a few minutes.

After all, his group had made cherry, and although this was no cherry pie it was certainly close enough, and who was he to ever think too hard when there was _pie_?

* * *

_Saturday, December 15—6 Days Before the End of the World_

Dean slept in until just past noon, finally waking up when his dad banged on his door just before poking his head in.

"Get up, Dean. I've got to go out—I need you to watch Sam while I'm gone."

There were a few small movements from the bed, and then a sandy brown head peeked out from under a mess of blankets. "'Kay," Dean croaked, eyes still closed. "I'm comin'."

"_Now_, son," John warned, leaving but keeping the door open. Dean very wisely bit back any complaints about how Sam was thirteen and could sure as shit take care of himself.

A minute later or two later Dean emerged from his bed like one of those whatsit—_shapeshifters_ Sam kept telling him about—shedding the twisted blankets from his body like he was leaving his skin in a big, goopy pile on the floor. He stumbled into the bathroom to wash up and headed downstairs after throwing on a shirt, not quite caring enough to put on pants over his boxers.

"Sam?" he asked the house at large, going downstairs.

From the vague direction of the computer room Sam called, "In here, Dean."

He should have known. Dean yawned and scratched at the skin of his belly as he strolled past the living room to find Sam hunched over the family computer, clicking away and bashing the keyboard as he cursed quietly.

"Watch it, dumbass," Dean scolded—but not very well, that he could admit.

Sam rolled his eyes, and Dean peered over his little brother's shoulder. "What're you killing today?"

"A rugaru," Sam replied seriously. "_Shi_—shoot! It, ah, hang on." He pressed a few keys on the keyboard, and on-screen a figure went up in flames. He let out a tiny whoop of victory and twisted around in the chair. "A rugaru's like, this super-cannibal. They eat people, and once they start they can't stop. You've got to roast 'em."

"Ah," Dean nodded, then grinned. "That's not lame at all, Sammy."

"Shut up," Sam protested, exasperated, and turned back to his game.

Dean left him and wandered into the kitchen, calling over his shoulder, "You want anything for lunch?"

"What're you having?"

"A sandwich?"

"PB and J, then?"

"Sure thing," Dean called back, snickering to himself as he pictured Sam's face if he gave him ham or roast beef or something. His brother was something else, that was for sure.

As Dean pulled stuff to make sandwiches out of their rickety old fridge he frowned, thinking. After a few swigs straight from the jug of orange juice by the door he shook off the cobwebs of sleep still hanging around and he remembered.

Castiel had been acting pretty weird the day before. He had meant to chat with the dude after school but he hadn't been around. That was strange enough, because most days Castiel walked with Dean to the Impala and they'd talk for a while and then Castiel would walk home. If he was feeling lazy that day he'd let Dean drive him home. Dean hardly ever went a day without seeing Castiel or only seeing him in the morning.

If he was being honest, yesterday had been kind of worse off for not seeing Cas as much as usual, but he wasn't gonna go there, nuh-uh.

But whatever. Castiel was acting strange—well, stranger than usual—and Dean at least owed the guy a phone call.

He finished Sammy's lunch and brought the sandwich, an apple and some soda in for the kid, who thanked him and proceeded to make him watch as he blew the fucking head off of some ghoul with a shotgun.

"Headshots," Sam told him.

"I'll remember that the next time someone tries to eat me alive."

He popped upstairs to grab his phone off his bedside table and then got comfortable at the tiny table in the kitchen, pulling his own sandwich towards him and taking a huge bite as he scrolled through his contacts until he got to 'Cas.'

It rang only once before Castiel answered, and he sounded…stressed.

"Hello?"

"Uh, hey, Cas," Dean said, popping a potato chip into his mouth and crunching loudly into the receiver. "What's up?"

"This isn't—" In the background Dean heard a loud bang followed by what sounded like half a ton of shattering glass. He paused in his chewing and held the phone away from his ear, staring at it.

"This isn't the best time," Castiel continued after a moment. "_Yes, Michael, I'm coming_—" He sighed. "I'll talk to you soon, Dean?"

He almost said his goodbyes but stubbornly pressed on, just for his own peace of mind. "Yeah, okay, but you're alright, right? You were a mess yesterday in class—you cool?"

Something else made a terrific bang from Castiel's end and the slightly older teen snapped, clearly at his wit's end, "This is the _apocalypse_, Dean. No, I'm not alright."

Dean stilled for a second, then threw his head back as he laughed, nearly toppling backward on the unstable legs of his chair. "Seriously, dude? That's just a crappy prediction—nothing's gonna happen."

"We'll talk later," came the curt response, and the line went dead.

Dean shook his head fondly and put his phone on the table.

Sam's footsteps came from behind him. "What's up with Cas?"

Dean laughed again, waiting until Sam finished refilling his glass, this time with water, before answering, "He's upset about the apocalypse. I think his family's going nuts over it."

"They do know nothing's going to happen, right?"

"Guess not. You know how they are."

Sam snorted. "Oh yeah. Well… they got through the Rapture last year, they'll get through this, I guess?"

Dean sighed and thought a little self-indulgently about his friend. Castiel's family was full of freaks, to put it nicely—and trust him, he could think of a hell of a whole lot worse to describe the Miltons. Where his siblings were mostly arrogant, dickish douchebags Castiel was one of the nicest dudes around, even if he was weird as all get out and unnerved just about everybody. He meant well. Didn't bother Dean, at any rate.

The Milton family was often swept up in things, though; they'd go through weeks where they all wrote letters protesting something-or-another in the media or where there was nothing but bread and 'the blood of Christ' in the house—that was when it became Dean's job to get Castiel's mind on something more pleasing or give him some real food and real alcohol, not the shitty wine his parents apparently had a freaking store's worth of somewhere in the basement. Overly-religious, yeah, but mostly harmless, the whole 'we-hate-gays-and-trans-people-and-birth-control-and-anything-cool-and-awesome-ever' thing notwithstanding. You just had to deal with them the right way.

"…Better go check on him tomorrow," Dean muttered after a moment, digging in to his lunch with gusto.

* * *

_Sunday, December 16—5 Days Before the End of the World_

"I'm outside," Dean said, using one hand to pull into Castiel's driveway.

"Oh, Dean—no, this isn't—"

"I'm literally right outside," Dean pressed, parking his car and sticking his head out the window and taking in Castiel's house. It was a disaster; the door and all the windows hung open. Clothes, empty wine bottles and what looked like half the attic was strewn about the front lawn, and a large poster board (probably made by Raphael, because he was apparently the artist in the family) said in large, bright letters: 'THE APOCALYPSE IS COMING! FIND SHELTER, FIND JESUS.'

It was a little bit sad, and a little bit 'Dean had to bite his cheek to bite back hysterical laughter or risk insulting everybody.'

Castiel appeared in the doorway, dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt. Dean didn't often find his friend out of his collection of suits, proper button-downs or slacks, and man, if it wasn't a good change…mmhmm, definitely.

Dean coughed, shook his head, and got out of the car. Castiel hurried out to see him, breath fogging in the chilly air. His hair was a mess again and his nostrils flared with impatience like they usually did when Dean was being a persistent brat, but he didn't tell Dean to leave. Instead, he jerked his head towards the house and looked left and right across the lawn before heading inside, expecting to be followed.

Inside, things were chaos.

"Hey Dean!" came Anna's voice first. Dean blinked, searching, and found her behind a large stack of boxes in the entranceway. One was marked _Army Rations_ and the other _Gabriel's Candy_. Other boxes were similarly stacked all over the place, and there was enough stuff on the floor to make walking a hazard. It looked like the Miltons were packing to move, except that everything they were packing was stuff they apparently couldn't live without—like _Bibles and Religious Texts_—and things to help them survive the fucking apocalypse, like _First Aid_.

Things were worse than he thought.

Beside him, Castiel thrummed with energy. Dean turned to him and said flatly, "This is fucked up. You guys are nuts."

"I—" Castiel glared for a second, his blue eyes narrowed into bright slits, before he sighed, glanced around at the destroyed house and nodded tightly. "I know, Dean. I know that. But my parents and Michael are insisting that we need to be prepared."

He eyed Uriel, who came downstairs with an armful of what looked like—holy shit, guns, were they real? No way they could be real, Christ. Castiel's head tilted back on his shoulder and he looked up at the ceiling with his eyes closed, as if praying for some kind of strength to get him through this. Knowing Castiel, he probably was—and like that his Adam's apple stuck out strong, and above it Cas was getting stubbly, probably too caught up with all this apocalypse shit to shave.

_Hm_. Dean didn't move his eyes and after a moment Castiel sighed softly and opened his eyes, catching Dean's gaze. He seemed unsurprised to see Dean staring at him, or maybe they were both so used to this kind of thing from each other they just didn't care anymore. "I know that this apocalypse business is ridiculous," he confided softly, in a voice so quiet his overzealous siblings wouldn't overhear, "but it's hard to be…unaffected, when everyone else is so certain we're going to die in under a week."

"That's understandable," Dean shrugged. "I get you. D'you want to go do something, get away from all this for a little while?"

Castiel cringed. "I'd like that, but unfortunately I'm helping Gabriel at the moment pack some of the blankets and pillows for the bunker."

It took a moment longer than it should have, but then Dean gasped, "You guys have a _survive the apocalypse_ bunker?" As a kid he had gone through a zombie phase (or three) and had planned out what he'd put into some super-secret underground hideout to survive the 'zombie apocalypse.' "Dude. That's so _Independence Day_."

Castiel frowned at him. "It's all rather Cuban Missile Crisis-esque, yes, I know. I'm aware. It's way over the top, but we've been stocking it all week and sleeping in it at night so we can get used to being in there for however long we need to be."

"And how long do your parents think that will be?"

Shrugging stiffly, Castiel replied, "I'm not sure. It all depends on how long the nuclear radiation lingers, provided that nuclear war does indeed erupt. After the hellfire, and floods, and—" He took a moment to collect himself, looking almost paranoid.

"Come with me," he said after a beat, and started for the stairs.

Shaking his head, Dean followed. Someone had threaded caution tape through the banister going upstairs and someone else, probably Gabriel, had taped scribbled doomsday messages on post-its that traveled along at eye level. The closest one loudly read "WE'RE ALL GOING TO DIE!" and the next had in black pen, "I looked and there before me was a pale horse! Its rider was named Death. _Revelations 6:7_."

"Morbid, isn't it?" Castiel asked over his shoulder. He reached back and grabbed Dean's hand, strong and warm, and guided him through a hallway which was littered with hunting magazines, mud-splattered boots and plastic plates and eating utensils. Like the floor was an active minefield they carefully picked their way across the room, hands still firmly clasped. As a kid he and Sammy had played that game where the carpet was lava and you had to cross the floor without stepping on it; this was kind of the same, maybe, except inverted, or something.

Whatever—with Cas' hand in his Dean was entitled to be a little short on wit, he thought.

They eventually made it to Gabriel's room on the back of the second floor, and Castiel let go of Dean's hand, saying nothing of it. Gabriel was blasting music from his stereo as he jumped up and down inside a huge cardboard box.

"What the heck are you doing?" Dean asked, giving Gabriel a _look_.

"Hey, Dean-o," Gabriel said cheerily, raising a hand in a wave before stomping around on something in the box. Castiel's brother was always in a good mood, it seemed, even with the impending apocalypse and all. "I'm flattening these damned fire blankets. We've got to fit as many as we can inside these things."

"Oh." _Oh, of course you are_. _Duh._ "Where'd you guys get all those fire blankets?"

"My father knows firefighters," Castiel said vaguely, and sat down on Gabriel's bed to tug a box closer to him by one of the flaps. He patted the spot next to him on the bed before turning to a pile of already-folded bedsheets. Dean almost protested, because they both knew what Gabriel of all people got up to on a regular basis with female company and his bed, but he sat down without complaint and wordlessly dropped a blanket on top of the stack of others.

"Buckle in boys," Gabriel drawled as he climbed out of his box, "This is going to be a shitty week."

* * *

_Monday, December 17—4 Days Before the End of the World_

Quite truthfully, Dean wasn't sure if he would see Castiel at school that day.

He had helped out at the Milton household for a few hours before his dad called, needing Dean to come home and make dinner. He didn't mind it, of course, but he felt bad leaving Cas in that place. Raphael, Balthazar and Lucifer had been carrying all sorts of suspicious things into the basement all day—and the bunker was down there, he was sure of it; Castiel was going to show him that thing if it was the last thing he ever did—and as the day wore on the Miltons, as a whole, grew more and more agitated.

Anna had broken into angry tears after Uriel accidentally stepped on her iPod while attempting to carry the television from the living room towards the basement door in the kitchen. She screamed about not wanting to die and Michael had attempted to comfort her, but his version of comfort was quoting the Bible and how their own Sin had brought this down on them and that the righteous would survive and blah, blah, blah. It hadn't helped. The siblings snapped at each other and Dean had split before Mr. Milton got home, thankfully; he could only imagine how much worse things got once he showed up.

Dean shoved his textbooks into his locker and hung his leather jacket up on the hook in the back, frowning. Everyone else at school was carefree and laughing; it was their last full week of school before getting off for the holiday break. No one else was freaking out over this so-called doomsday.

Castiel had really drawn the short stick when it came to families, it seemed. They all loved each other, though, and when it came down to it that was kind of all that mattered, no matter how weird.

"Dean."

"_Woah_—" Dean spun around, nearly cracking his head on the door of his locker. Castiel stood there, quiet and still as always. "Don't sneak up on me like that, man, I've told you."

"My apologies," Castiel murmured, but the tiny smile on his lips spoke otherwise. He still hadn't shaved, and the collar on his trenchcoat was popped on one side and more wrinkled than usual, but he otherwise looked pretty normal. "How are you?"

"I'm good," Dean shrugged. Not much to say—his life was always the same. Take care of Sammy, help Dad, maybe throw in a date with a cheerleader or two here and there, repeat. Castiel knew that but he always asked anyway. Not everyone's life could be as interesting as this nerdy dude's.

They started walking in the direction of their first classes: Dean, math and Castiel, biology. Unfortunately their schedules hadn't managed to sync and the only class they had together was freakin' Food and Nutrition, which met Wednesdays and Fridays. Students crowded in on all sides, talking loudly, but Castiel paid them no mind. During the morning and after school let out when it was just the two of them Castiel had eyes only for Dean. A man could certainly grow to enjoy that.

"How are you holding up?"

"Fine," Castiel said breezily, and Dean scowled at him, but he didn't elaborate. "I'm looking forward to lunch today. I like the pizza."

"That was the worst change of subject ever," Dean groused, but otherwise let it slide. "Tell Sam I said hi, wouldja? I think he has a test this morning."

Ever faithful, Castiel replied, "Yes, Dean." Every other day Castiel had a different lunch—A— from Dean—C, later on in the afternoon—and sat with Sam, who was in A lunch all year long. It sucked that Dean couldn't sit with his brother and keep an eye on him, but Sam probably thought it was a good thing, not having his older brother cramping his style and all that. Whatever, he just didn't know what was best for him.

They parted ways at the beginning of the math wing and before Castiel could leave Dean reached out and fixed his friend's collar, folding down the popped-up side and halfheartedly smoothing down the wrinkled shoulders.

Castiel said nothing, but he gave a private, grateful smile. Dean grinned back in return and clapped him on the shoulder. "Later, man. Gimme a ring later if you need me, alright?" He got a nod and the flick of the bottom of a trenchcoat against his kneecaps as Castiel swiftly turned and walked away.

That night he got a phone call during dinner. Dean cringed as it started buzzing in his pocket—his dad didn't allow electronics at the table, so he let it go to voicemail and ducked his head as he ate to avoid his father's stern look. Under the table Sam's foot poked into his knee, but whether he was curious or consoling him he wasn't sure and didn't dare glance up to check.

After dinner he scurried upstairs and shut his door, flopping on his bed to pull out his phone. One missed call from Castiel, huh?

Slightly worried, he dialed the guy's number and waited anxiously as it rang.

"Hello Dean," came a familiar gravelly voice.

"Cas! Are you alright? What's up? Sorry I didn't get your call, I was eating dinner."

"That's fine," Castiel said, sounding normal, like they were chatting while sitting on the hood of the Impala and like he wasn't in a household full of religious zealots. "I apologize for calling you at such an inopportune time. And yes, I'm quite alright."

"Uh, great. What did you call for, then?"

"I was wondering if you knew the best kind of knife to best gut a fish. Something that would double as a murder weapon if the shelter is invaded would be preferable."

"…_Cas_."

"Yes?"

Dean pinched his nose. His friend had clearly lost it, if he was able to talk about murder weapons and gutting fish in such a nonchalant way—and why the hell did Castiel think he would know this stuff?

"Why the hell do you think I'd know that?" he accused, needing to vocalize it.

"I thought you go fishing with your Dad occasionally?"

"Yeah, well, we do, but we never catch anything. We put 'em back anyway if we do—Sammy won't eat fish."

"Oh."

Dean nibbled on his thumbnail, a bad habit he hadn't quite managed to break. "Dude… do you need me to come by?"

"No, of course not. I'm fine, Dean."

"…Are you _sure_?"

"Yes," Castiel replied, and it was full of that dangerous heat he got sometimes when angry. It disappeared quickly though and he replied in that too-friendly voice, "I'll see you in school tomorrow, okay? Have a nice evening."

Dean was left staring at his phone, totally thrown. He groaned and tossed it onto his pillow. This was getting worse and worse by the day—couldn't the freaking apocalypse happen already so it could be over and done with?

* * *

_Tuesday, December 18—3 Days Before the End of the World_

"…The apocalypse? Seriously, Cas?"

The look Castiel sent Ash could have struck a man dead. Ash was generally impervious to that kind of thing, though, and swirled his cranberry juice around in its bottle before knocking it back, chugging the rest of it down.

"Yes," Castiel said tersely when the empty bottle hit Ash's tray with a hollow thunk. "The apocalypse. I'm aware of how this sounds-"

"It sounds totally crazy," Jo marveled, elbowing Dean in the bicep to get him to agree with her. "I knew your family was, _well_." She wisely ended that trail of thought, because although Castiel sometimes loathed his family and its messages they were his _family_, and he'd do anything for them. It wasn't that Castiel wasn't religious, because he was, moreso than anyone else Dean had ever met, really; he just happened to think it was more of a personal thing and disliked the spreading, in-your-face preaching and missionary work his immediate and extended family was so fond of. It was complicated and Dean was always extra careful to not get into anything even remotely resembling a theological argument with his friend.

Jo frowned, looking exasperated with Castiel's family and perhaps all of society. "At this point the apocalypse on Friday is just a bunch of internet jokes."

"I'm aware."

"Then why—"

"Hey, hey." Dean waved his arms and picked up Jo's grilled cheese. He jabbed it towards her mouth and sent a look Pamela's way; she looked like she was about to add her two cents too. "Leave the guy alone, wouldja? This weekend this'll all be over and we can relax and forget this ever happened."

Jo snorted but snatched her food out of Dean's hand. Conversation turned to advising Pamela on her newest boyfriend, who was apparently clingy as hell. He caught Castiel's eye—he smiled softly, thankful, and Dean smiled back, because hey, what were friends for?

Under the table their knees touched and neither boy moved them away until the bell rang.

….

"Thanks for earlier," Castiel said as they strolled to the Impala later that afternoon.

Dean shrugged and threw his backpack into the back of his car, looking around the parking lot as he tried to spot Sam. "Don't worry about it. Sorry about those guys."

"They make valid points."

Dean eased himself onto the car's hood, legs folded in front of him. He leant back on his hands, absently glad he had worn gloves that day as it was freezing as hell.

A great day to burn in hellfire, now that he thought about it.

"I guess," Dean said vaguely, not wanting to inadvertently piss Castiel off—he had been a bit of a short fuse lately. Usually he was all patient smiles and politeness, though if you made him angry he could be one terrifying sonuvabitch; Dean had learned that last year during the worst fight they'd had. Cas had nearly given him a concussion after punching his head so many times. At this point he didn't even remember what the fight was about.

Castiel sighed after a moment and sat next to Dean. His trench coat flapped in the frigid breeze; wasn't he cold?

Quite honestly, Dean wanted to wrap his arms around the guy, let him burrow into the warmth of his jacket and chest and stay there till he was warm, or maybe even a little bit longer than that.

They were both silent, shoulders pressed together comfortably as they thought. Dean checked the time on his watch after a minute, eyes sweeping the parking lot again for Sam.

Oh, _fuck_.

Sam was there, all right, but so were two guys that looked anything but friendly. Dean immediately got off the car and started striding across the parking lot, hearing Castiel's swift footsteps behind him.

"Hey!" He barked once he got close. Sam looked exasperated, shouldering his backpack as he talked to the dudes beside him. What were they, juniors? Sam wasn't a pushover or anything like that, but Sam had always been Dean's responsibility. He was still growing, gaining gangly limbs and increasingly floppy hair, but for now Dean was still taller and stronger—he had it covered.

"Dean," Sam muttered, "It's okay, I've—"

"What do you two want?" Dean challenged, looking them up and down and sizing them up.

They sneered but looked between themselves, trading a look.

"_Dean_, it's fine—"

"Fuck off," Dean spat. "Picking on a Freshman? Please, this ain't a teen movie. Go bother someone in your own grade, assholes."

Sam let out an angry sigh and roughly pushed past Dean and Castiel, heading for the Impala. He didn't look back.

The dudes left after an intense stare-off, and Dean let the tension bleed out of his body as he turned. It was always a thought in the back of his mind—what if he took on something too strong, what if he couldn't protect Sammy?

Today was not that day, at any rate, so he didn't dwell. Plus, he had Castiel, and Castiel could beat the shit out of just about anybody if he got angry enough.

"C'mon, Cas," Dean muttered, knowing Sam would be pissed at him for the rest of the day.

"_Dean_."

Castiel was rooted to the spot, looking nothing less than horrified.

"Uh…Cas?" Dean asked, bewildered. There hadn't been any _actual _violence, no need to freak out.

"_War_," Castiel breathed, eyes wide. His hair seemed to stand on end and the breeze whipped his coat around his body, the fabric flapping loudly. It looked like he was being electrocuted and communing with God all at once.

He blinked at Dean, big and slow, and wordlessly spun on his heel and strode off in the opposite direction.

* * *

_Wednesday, December 19—2 Days Before the End of the World_

Castiel hadn't visited him at his locker that day. Dean had hung around for a little while longer than usual waiting for him, but eventually he had spotted three of his exes chatting together a little bit down the hallway. No matter how amicable the breakup, if there's a group of your ex-girlfriends talking together, you _bolt_.

So Dean had escaped, getting to Food and Nutrition a few minutes early. He filled Jo in on the most recent episode of Dr. Sexy M.D and the spinal surgery Dr. Sexy had performed with a raging hard-on from Dr. Melissa Masser, the Sweet Southern Doctor, who he had been passionately making out with in a storage closet minutes before going in for surgery. She seemed appropriately awed.

Castiel skidded into the classroom a minute late and still with his backpack. Dean gaped from his desk in the back because one, Castiel was never late, and two, Castiel was _never_ late and this really _must _be the apocalypse after all.

"We're making smoothies today," Mrs. Rosen cheerfully announced, probably because that was the easiest damn thing to make they had attempted all semester long and she could sit on her computer and write her stories or whatever the heck she did—Dean wasn't exactly sure and finding out was at the absolute bottom of his to-do list.

Everyone split into their groups as Mrs. Rosen went to the refrigerator. The groups had been assigned on the first day of class. Dean had been cursing the fact that Castiel was across the room for the entire semester.

A shriek came from the corner of the room and Mrs. Rosen popped her head out from the fridge and held out her hand. In it were three grapes.

"Just earlier this morning this was full of fruit!" she said, mouth turning down into something resembling a pout that most definitely did not belong on a teacher's face. "Someone ate it!"

Dean shrugged at Ash—hey, no work for them, although the smoothie thing had sounded pretty tasty.

"It had to have been that janitor, he's always leaving candy wrappers in here…"

Castiel suddenly drew Dean's eye as he lunged away from his group and hurried to his desk, swinging his backpack over his shoulder. "I have to go," he said loudly to Mrs. Rosen.

"Cas," Dean said hastily, moving towards him, "What's wro—?"

"_Famine, Dean_," Castiel half-yelled, meeting his gaze head-on with enough intensity to burn. He held eye contact for a few seconds, brow furrowed with anger and something like panic.

"I have to go," he announced again, tearing his gaze away to turn that focus on Mrs. Rosen, who blinked.

"I think I need to give you a hall pass, Castiel?"

Castiel didn't listen and swept out of the classroom, door shutting behind him with a bang.

…..

Dean was half-asleep in bed that night when he next heard from Castiel. His phone started buzzing somewhere down near his hip (_how had it gotten down there anyway? _Dean thought hazily as he fished it out).

"'Ello?"

"Dean," came a harsh whisper. Castiel had never been good at whispering; he did that yelling whisper thing that was basically the same as talking normally. Normally it cracked Dean up, but right now it was a bit much for his sleepy ears to handle.

"Wassup Cas?" he slurred, eyes closing again as he rolled over and curled into a ball on his side, drawing the blankets up to his ears and covering his hand, phone clutched safely within it.

"I—you see—it's just—" A lengthy pause came from Castiel's end. "Balthazar just discovered a dead cockroach in the cabinet downstairs."

"Gross." Dean resisted the urge to shudder. Bugs, nasty. Still, was that worth a late-night phone call?

As if reading his thoughts Castiel hissed into the phone, "That's Death."

"Uh, yeah," Dean replied, tired brain fuzzily processing everything. "A dead cockroach means death…"

Castiel sighed, and Dean pictured his friend mussing up his hair again in frustration. "No—Death. The fourth horseman."

"What?"

"The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, Dean. Pestilence, War, Famine and Death. I've seen them all this past week."

"Oh, Cas, c'mon," Dean protested. "You only saw all that stuff 'cause you were lookin' for it. There's—whatsit—pestilence every day, people are always sick. War and famine and death too. It doesn't mean anything."

He fell silent, but then spoke again, because Castiel upset was the last thing he wanted. "Look, man. Nothing's gonna happen tomorrow night. You'll be fine. We'll be fine."

Nothing but steady breathing came through the other end, and Dean, who was slipping further and further into sleep as the call wore on, murmured, "I wouldn't let a freaking apocalypse hurt you anyways."

That got him a small puff of laughter and Castiel finally responded with, "Yes, I suppose you're right."

"The Four Horsemen are lame anyway. Cowboys are way cooler."

Dean wasn't totally sure the next morning, but he was pretty sure that he stayed on the line with Castiel, neither of them really talking, until Dean slipped off to sleep, phone still pressed to his ear.

* * *

_Thursday, December 20—1 Day Before the End of the World_

Castiel didn't show up to school that day.

Dean was a mess in all his classes. He could see it—Cas hunkering down in that bunker with all his siblings, crawling out from time to time to fetch something they had forgotten or to use the bathroom.

Jeez, he hadn't even thought of that! Where were those people going to use the bathroom down there in their crazy post-apocalyptic future? The thought of Cas trying to take a dump in some kind of bucket while his family sat less than five feet away was hilarious and managed to entertain him all the way through his first few classes.

By lunch the worry had set in again and he spoke about it at lunch with his friends, but in a totally manly way that didn't let them know that he was actually _worried _at all, oh no.

"So…what you're saying is that you're worried about Cas," Pamela asked him, swirling one of her mozzarella sticks around in dipping sauce.

Dean sighed tightly. "Well. Yeah, I guess. Basically."

"They got through the Rapture," Jo said with a shrug. "They're all nuts but Cas won't actually get hurt or anything, I'm sure."

"I know that," Dean protested. "I know, but he's a mess from the whole thing. Paranoid and stuff—he told me he knows nothing's going to happen but because his family is so crazy they've sorta…swept him up in it too."

Ash whistled. "Can't blame the guy."

"Dean," Jo began, and Dean instantly tensed—it was _that _voice. A quick glance around the table showed that Ash and Pamela were quick to catch on. They all leant in towards him like they were gossiping or something (which they kinda were, now that he thought about it).

"Are you going to tell him soon?"

"Oh, Christ—"

"C'monnnn, Dean," Ash goaded. "This is getting old."

"I'd still bet my left boob Castiel feels the same," Pamela added.

Dean dropped his forehead into his hand. "Yeah, yeah. Soon. Soon, alright?"

Nobody seemed excited by his answer, but it was good enough.

Lunch ended with them managing to make him promise to try to work Castiel out of his apocalyptic funk. ("And by any means necessary," Pamela had added with a wink.)

The problem was that he couldn't very well work Castiel out of anything at all while he wasn't at school, so in-between classes he sent him a text from inside a bathroom stall. It was simple: **You okay?**

He didn't get a response until after dinner. Sam and his father were watching the news—people were (jokingly, of course) warning of the impending hellfire or whatever the hell. It would be funny, except this had stopped being funny for Dean, like, Sunday afternoon.

**I need to see you. **

He hurriedly typed back **Where? Now? **

Castiel told him he was in town, at the grocery store. Dean sprang out of his seat and jammed on his boots, half-hopping through the living room to get to his jacket hung up on the stand by the door.

"Where are you going?" his dad asked, eyes narrowing.

Dean froze, took a deep breath to collect himself and turned around. "I need to go pick up Castiel," he said, back ramrod straight as he met his dad's eyes. "His family's being nuts again."

John was quiet for a moment, then nodded. "That's unfortunate. Go get that kid outta that house."

"Yes, Sir," Dean said wholeheartedly and left, hurrying down the tiny front path that led from their porch to the street. He climbed into the Impala and headed downtown.

What was up with Cas? Why was he at the grocery store at, what was it, nine-thirty at night the evening before the apocalypse and all? Dean turned up his music to distract him as he drove into town. He pulled into the parking lot at the grocery store and spotted Castiel a short distance away, leaning against the wall by the front doors.

He got out and shut the door before shoving his hands in his pockets and walking towards the guy.

"Cas!" he called, shivering. Castiel looked up and caught his eye; Dean immediately saw that something was wrong.

"Hello, Dean," Castiel said quietly as Dean reached him. He wordlessly held out one arm, which had about seven plastic bags looped around it from elbow to fingertip. Dean took them and grunted at the weight, transferring the bags to both of his hands.

"Jeez, what the heck did you buy?"

"Bottled water, diaper wipes and birthday candles," Castiel replied, adjusting his own bags and starting to walk towards the car. "Thank you for coming to get me."

"No problem—you know that."

"Yes, well." Castiel frowned at the ground. His coat was unbuttoned as usual and he was just wearing a white button-up underneath. His ears and nose were red from cold but he didn't seem to notice.

Dean opened up the car's trunk and deposited his bags, shutting it after Castiel had done the same. "So you called so I could do your grocery run for you?"

Immediately he wished he could eat his foot—when he didn't know what to say he inevitably said stupid shit, quite like that. Castiel went still and Dean cringed.

"…It's not just that," Castiel said at length. He rubbed his hands, working blood back into his fingers which were lined and splotchy from the force of the bag handles digging into them for who knew how long. He lifted his head and locked gazes with Dean.

"I wanted to talk to you before tonight."

"Cas," Dean began, shaking his head, "Nothing's goi—"

"I _know that_," Castiel snapped. He raised his fist to his mouth and looked away briefly before giving him those laser eyes again. He moved a bit closer and Dean instinctively leant away, his upper thighs pressing against the back of his car.

"I'm aware that tomorrow we will all be fine and the world will be intact. My Father will be confused and Gabriel and Balthazar will laugh at him. We'll come out of the basement and unpack and resume our daily lives, but…"

He moved forward again and murmured, "Even so." Dean started sweating despite how cold he was and eased backward and up onto the trunk of his car, legs dangling down above the pavement as Cas walked forward and stood between his knees. His hands came down on Dean's thighs and he peered at his friend; usually Castiel was almost an inch shorter but like this they were about equal.

"There's something I'd like to do all the same. Just in case by some miracle we _do _die tomorrow."

"Cas," Dean whispered faintly, because this dancing around each other that had been going on for ages now? He would have been content with it. He had a crush on Castiel and he was pretty sure Castiel knew about it, just like he was pretty sure Cas liked him and was pretty sure that Cas knew that _he _knew. Unlike with any of his girlfriends Dean hadn't pressed it, though, finding their unique friendship was pretty awesome and not worth fucking up.

But who knows—maybe Castiel had had enough of the normalness and the _when are you two getting together? _questions.

His hands came up to cup Dean's cheeks. They were freezing cold, like ten little icicles, and Dean shuddered and winced but didn't pull away. He covered them with his own and rubbed gently, trying to give Castiel some of his warmth.

Castiel tugged his head forward, as purposeful as he always was; even now he had no hesitancy, a disregard for things he maybe shouldn't do. That was one of Dean's favorite Castiel-quirks.

Their lips met in a cloud of puffy white breath-fog, the freezing air making both of their lips cold at first touch. Castiel's were more chapped than usual due to the weather but Dean didn't mind, and after a second they and the space between them warmed up.

Dean smiled against Castiel's mouth and playfully wrapped his legs around Castiel's lower back, pulling him closer. Castiel's arms slipped under his coat and curled around the warmth of Dean's sides.

He almost said something about where they were: making out in the freezing cold on a car in a grocery store parking lot, in public, because although it didn't especially bother him (and he'd done much worse, truth be told) Castiel had a reputation and his family didn't know he wasn't as straight as he seemed—but then Castiel's tongue slid past his lips to brush against his and he forgot about his worries entirely.

"Dean," Castiel murmured against the skin under Dean's jaw a short while later. He left a brief kiss there and let Dean swoop down to capture his mouth again, and then again, and then once more, but eventually leant backwards. Dean tightened his grip on Castiel with his legs and Cas dangled there, hardly even holding himself upright.

"They're expecting me."

Dean ruffled Castiel's hair and moved his legs, laughing a little when Castiel stumbled backwards at the loss of support. He hopped down off the car and clapped his hands. "Alright! Winchester taxi service—next stop, Cas's house."

Castiel was, miraculously, allowed to pick the music for the ride home. Dean reached across the seats to grab Castiel's hand and drove one-handed, glad that it was dark and no one, especially Castiel, could see his face. The ride wasn't nearly as awkward as it could have been.

They hadn't talked about it, this tremendous shift in their dynamic, what it meant, what they were to each other now—but then again both Dean and Castiel had never been the types to talk about that kind of stuff too much. This felt like a seamless transition from friendship to _more _and if Dean had known it was that easy he would have listened to Jo, Ash and Pamela and done something about it a hell of a lot sooner.

After parking in Castiel's driveway Dean put his car in park and idled, squinting through the windshield at Cas' house as Castiel unbuckled his seatbelt. Several other warning signs had joined Raphael's from the other day: one read WE WILL ALL ROT IN HELL! That had to be Lucifer's work. Through a gap in the curtains he spotted Balthazar, who was trying to shut a cardboard box that was overflowing with stuff. Knowing Castiel's packrat collector of a brother, he wasn't going to have much luck.

For once Dean was quite at a loss for words, so he didn't say anything. Castiel squeezed his hand beside him and was also quiet, observing his house and all the activity going on inside.

"I need you to do me a favor," Castiel eventually said, turning in his seat to face him.

"Anything."

In the darkness Castiel's eyes were luminous, effortlessly holding his own. "Promise me that nothing bad will happen tonight."

"I _promise_ nothing bad is gonna happen tonight." Dean smiled what he hoped was reassuringly. "You'll be fine, dude."

Castiel nodded, glanced at his house, and then Dean was suddenly crowded back against the driver's side door, his jaw held firmly in Castiel's grasp as his friend—boyfriend?—kissed the hell out of him. His hands scrabbled to grip onto Castiel somewhere and find some purchase as his head smacked against the window with a loud thud, but before he could find his balance Castiel was climbing out of the car while licking his lips, still kiss-swollen from the parking lot.

He didn't let Dean help him with any of the groceries, saying it "wasn't safe" for Dean to go inside at the moment. It took Cas a few trips but finally he came out to grab the last of the stuff. Dean rolled down his window grabbed Castiel's wrist as he passed by. He smiled up at him and said, "I'll see you tomorrow at school, alright?"

Castiel nodded and gave him a smile—small and not reaching his eyes, but a smile nonetheless. He then headed inside, and the front door shut behind him.

Dean whistled, picturing all the craziness going on inside, and drove home.

…..

At 11:50pm that night Dean was holed in his room, blasting Metallica through his headphones.

He didn't want to admit it, but perhaps all this silly apocalypse talk had actually—somehow—not in a big way but—maybe—gotten to him a little bit.

A little.

He glanced at the clock again; the time hadn't changed.

Of course he knew this was all crap. He had been online in the past few hours—everyone was making joke after joke and people in other timezones had been hilariously reporting plagues and God knew what else. Sam was downstairs chopping the heads off of vampires and his dad was doing whatever Dad did somewhere. There was totally, absolutely, nothing to worry about.

Still, Dean worried.

The closest thing he could compare it to was something that developed for him after years of shoplifting. He hadn't been a bad kid, not _too _bad anyway, but sometimes money was tight and Dean had stolen Sam's tiny toddler clothes or suit for his third-grade concert or whatever from the mall. Even today when leaving a store he held his breath and waited anxiously for the alarms to go off, even though he knew—he _knew_—he didn't have anything on him that would trigger the system.

It wasn't going to happen, and yet Dean freaked. This goddamn apocalypse wasn't going to fucking happen, and still Dean found himself checking his clock and peering out the window in case fiery meteors rained from the heavens or—_hallelujah, it's raining men, amen! _

Okay—jokes, not the time. Dean scratched his head and pulled out his phone. He sent Castiel a quick text, because if _he _was a little bit worried? Then Cas must have been a wreck, awaiting his impending doom in a cramped little cement hellhole with seven other people who were also awaiting their deaths, or something close to it.

**Hang in there**, he sent.

He doubted Castiel got phone service where he was and, sure enough, he didn't get a response. 11:59 passed in a full minute of clenching blankets and shallow breathing, and, sure enough, his clock harmlessly passed to 12:00 without incident.

It wasn't until 12:05 that he let himself fully relax. He went downstairs, shot some ghosts full of rock salt with Sammy and cleaned up his dad's empty beer bottles, then fell asleep in a heap on his bed.

* * *

_Friday, December 21—The End of the World (Or the Day the World was Supposed to End but Didn't)_

At his locker the next day Dean was cursing as his half-frozen fingers struggled to open his backpack when he was seized from behind, spun around, and yanked forward into a warm hug.

Castiel was not a PDA person at _all _and his ex-girlfriend Meg had even broke up with him over it, so if Cas was squeezing him in the middle of a crowded hallway and—holy shit—_kissing_ him up against a row of lockers in that same hallway something big had to have gone down.

"We're alive, Dean," Castiel said, sounding so awed and joyous Dean didn't even have the heart to say _No shit, Sherlock_.

"That we are," he settled for, ignoring a few kids nearby who were gaping. "How was your night?"

Castiel replied so easily Dean had to pause, "The worst of my life."

He shut Dean's locker for him and started walking, waiting for the slightly younger teen to catch up. Dean grinned and bumped his shoulder. "I'll bet. But hey, we're all alive, and we get off for winter break today." He smirked and nudged Cas' shoulder again, this time more meaningfully. "We've got over an entire week to hang out. Sound like fun?"

"I'll have to spend a few days unpacking and consoling my Father and siblings," Castiel replied airily and Dean stopped walking for a second because ouch, cockblock—but Castiel smiled at him like he was teasing and continued, "But yes, we'll find time to be with each other."

"Good." Dean nodded. They went to their cooking class and made muffins, and Castiel's smile that morning was the greatest thing Dean had seen in a long time.

He was glad everything worked out and at lunch the others rubbed it into Castiel's face that they knew everything would be fine. He agreed and laughed with them, ankle crossed with Cas's under the table, but if he spent the day keeping an eye out for signs of the Four Horsemen, well, then that was his business.

* * *

_Review, please, and have a very happy apocalypse! :P_


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